


Of Roses and Nightengales

by gmusto19



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Good Omens Big Bang, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Travel, World Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:14:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22355434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gmusto19/pseuds/gmusto19
Summary: When darkness starts creeping in, it feels like fog, not like a predator. Since his breaking away from the will of Heaven, Aziraphale begins to feel the wounds left after centuries of being indoctrinated into the Great Plan. With he and Crowley on their own side, the ethereal pair considers what it means to live on Earth in a continued fight for humanity and what the Arrangement looks like after the End of the World. Through weekly meetings with a supernatural-specializing therapist, Aziraphale honors his own feelings and opens up to see a world beyond Good and Evil - and a world of exploration with a demon by his side.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	Of Roses and Nightengales

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic was part of the 2019 Good Omens Big Bang. It was a lot of fun and feels and I loved collaborating with @silentorator on Tumblr who made art to go along with it. Check out her art here; it's beautiful!  
> https://silentorator.tumblr.com/post/190394529880/this-is-my-piece-for-the-2019-good-omens-big-bang

When darkness started creeping in, it felt like fog, not like a predator. Aziraphale had been alone with his thoughts for many centuries and he’s found that it was best to sit in the fog and recognize it, see it, rather than try to fight it off. He’d been in this particular fog for several days now, keeping his bookshop doors locked tight and staying in the backroom, making cups of tea that grew cold and left unfinished. 

He wasn’t sure what happened next and it hung heavily about him. The week after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t was jubilant and joyful, filled with dinners with Crowley and long evenings with books and desserts stacked up around him. Now, Aziraphale felt a certain chill in the air - and it wasn’t just from the changing seasons, the sun getting lower on the horizon and the northern hemisphere shifting towards autumn. The chill was internal, an otherworldly sense that he was once again waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

He considered calling Crowley, but what could the demon do? Assure him that yes, one day Heaven and Hell would go back to their ultimate plans of worldly destruction and maybe what the angel is feeling right now are the first groanings and creakings towards that? It wouldn’t do anything to console him. Part of him wanted the demon to show up merely as a distraction - at least when he was thinking about Crowley, he wasn’t thinking about the stifled, pained bits of him he’s afraid to dig into. The parts that woke him up in the middle of the night. The parts that still give him nightmares. The part that continued to fight against the feeling that he could like a demon, trust humanity, and that his feelings were worth believing in rather than… someone else’s.

“You sound like you’re recovering from a cult. Or like from some heavy, forceful religious indoctrination,” he’d been told once by a social worker who he’d met in a New York soup kitchen in the 1990s. He’d been feeling a bit torn about the world and needed to believe that people could do good. And so he’d gone on a bit of a humanitarian trip, spending time in places that he felt needed extra care and attention. He’d spent a week working at this soup kitchen and got to know one of the employees, this social worker who’d once been a minister but changed jobs after a fall-out with her church over gender discrimination.

“I rather suppose you’re right, in a way,” he had said. “There is a pressure for sameness and similarity. Of rule following. Devotion to a cause. I… oh my.” He’d paused then and stopped himself before letting his thoughts entirely consume him. He’d shoved them away but they’d returned, slowly at first, but more and more as the Apocalypse had steamrolled on (and thankfully fizzled out). It was only in those last moments, body discorporated, being barraged by insults and critiques by a celestial commander that Aziraphale realized he had other choices. There were other sides. But now… what exactly did that mean?

“Have you thought about… talking to someone?” Anathema Device was seated on the settee in his office, skirts tucked around her bent legs as she lounged against the armrest, teacup balanced in her palm. She was in town for a bit of business (buying a new tarot deck, she claimed) and burst into the shop to say hello (she’d had to knock for a good long while before Aziraphale had realized she was not actually a customer intent on buying anything and merely wanted to visit).

It wasn’t the first time that Aziraphale had seen Anathema since the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t. She and Newt had been to London for lunch a few times with he and Crowley, and the quartet had gotten to know each other a little better - as much as a witch, a witch hunter, an angel, and a demon could. Anathema was what Aziraphale thought might be a friend - she certainly enjoyed chatting with him about books and playfully arguing about prophecies, especially the collection he kept. It was funny her showing up in the midst of his melancholy. If Agnes had left any further prophecies, it was almost as if she’d foretold the need for “a witch to visit a heavenly entity for he hath grown morose and dull.”

Somehow though, this conversation had shifted. Perhaps because Newt had stayed in Tadfield to work and Aziraphale hadn’t contacted Crowley. It had never been just the two of them before and Aziraphale found himself with a sympathetic mind and attentive ear. 

“I’m talking to you now,” Aziraphale replied, confused. “In fact, I’ve been talking for quite some time. Look at me, blathering on about my feelings.”

“I don’t mean me.” Anathema rolled her eyes. “I mean a professional. A therapist. Someone who can give you advice. Better than I can, of course.”

“How in the world do I explain all of this to a human therapist?”

“You have me there. Although I wouldn’t put it past someone specializing in supernatural therapy clients. There might be a witcher or two out there with that specialty. Hm…. I’ll do some research. Until then...well, why not talk to Crowley? He would listen to anything you’d say.”

“Oh no. He can’t be bothered with this.”

“I think he most certainly can. I think he’d like to be bothered.”

Anathema was giving him a sly look.

“What? What are you saying? Have you been talking to him?”

Anathema groaned and slumped, sloshing a bit of tea onto the rug beneath the settee. “Of course I’ve been talking to him. It’s clear as day the two of you care about each other more than any couple I’ve ever seen. And Crowley has no idea what to think, whether you care for him or not and I’ve spent the last couple of months trying to convince him you do and if you don’t damn well talk to him soon, I’m going to have to do some brilliant matchmaking work here to make this suffering end for everyone.”

Aziraphale was silent for a moment. “Crowley cares for me?”

“Oh my God,” Anathema cried.

“I mean… I know he likes flirting with me. He’s been trying to seduce me for centuries - and done a damn good job of it, I might add. But I’ve resisted because… well, I thought it was some demon desire. To make an angel fall, you know. I started to doubt that but I didn’t think… I didn’t think someone like him could actually care… for someone like me.”

“Read my lips: He cares. Please tell him before we both combust into flames.”

“How… how do I do that?” 

“You… wait, you really have no idea do you?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Angels might be good at sensing feelings but… they aren’t exactly expressive of them. I’m far more expressive than most. And I think most of my feelings revolve around food.”

“Mine too, to be honest. I thought Heaven was supposed to be all about love and joy?”

“In theory, yes. But… we are Stoic Guardians of Holy Goodness. At least we’re meant to be. I’ve certainly failed at that.”

“Hmm. Well, perhaps you need to watch more humans to learn how to express it. Not that you haven’t had six thousand years to do so already. But… maybe some better focus.”

“Perhaps… perhaps it would help me understand what I’m feeling and… and sort it all out. I certainly have been… well, a bit low, I would say, in the last few weeks.”

“You have gone through a lot,” Anathema agreed. “Quite an ordeal. I mean, I certainly have been reeling a bit. The world practically ended and here we are… trying to get on with our lives. It’s… it’s hard. I’ve got some post-traumatic stress to tell you the truth and… well, given everything you’ve been through… do you think you might be suffering from PTSD? Can angels get PTSD?”

“I… don’t know.” 

Anathema emptied her teacup and looked at him. “If it’s not an imposition to you, I think I’m going to get some books for you to read. About trauma recovery.”

“Oh, they don’t have aliens and secret societies in them, do they?”

Anathema narrowed her eyes. “No. They’re perfectly psychological. I do read other things than The New Aquarian.”

She promised to send the books along and Aziraphale was, once again, left with his thoughts. 

This particular series of recollections settled around the War of the Roses when Aziraphale had been rather overwhelmed with work from Gabriel and his staff. It was never entirely clear to him whether he was supposed to have aligned himself with the House of Lancaster or the House of York. He always presumed he was meant to support the Lancasters - after all, they were the “rightful kings” according to legacy and also not the side Richard III was on. But it was all very fuzzy to Aziraphale and he spent most of the war avoiding battle and avoiding the battling royals all together. He and Crowley had decided their influences were canceled out every other day by choices someone made and that the war certainly didn’t need their help for humans to fight for heavenly glory or evil deception. Crowley, who had been in a bit of a mood for most of the decade, was only too happy to ditch his assigned duties and dip over to the Black Forest in Germany for a pint, a protein-filled meal, and a chance to hear some folktales be told in one of their very first iterations.

Their lives were filled with these instances - small, tender moments while bigger historical things were happening. They could usually be found not doing what they were supposed to be doing at the time. But what if it was what they were supposed to be doing? Aziraphale wouldn’t put it past God to have known about the Arrangement years ago. But certainly, She hadn’t been a fan - had she? Who knew at this point. 

Aziraphale drifted back to what Anathema had said about Crowley. Was it possible that the demon really cared for him? Not in an “I’ll tolerate you for my own benefit” but in an actual loving way? Demons and angels didn’t love, technically - at least they weren’t supposed to. But Aziraphale had been on Earth long enough to know that he did love - lots of things. Pears. Crepes. Sunny autumn afternoons in Hampstead Heath. But loving things was different than loving people. Still, when he looked at Crowley, he knew what he felt. This was love. He’d seen it enough between humans over the millennia to recognize it. He had been loathed to admit it - afraid what would happen if someone like Gabriel found out. Afraid what would happen if Crowley found out. Demons were very good at manipulation, he’d been told - what if Crowley used his own feelings against him?

He hadn’t. The world had nearly ended and, if anything, Crowley had respected Aziraphale’s feelings (even when Aziraphale had not been entirely honest about them). Now Aziraphale was overwhelmed by a lot of feelings - generally confusion and shame and fear. But also love, stronger than it had ever been before. So strong it frightened him.

No, he couldn’t talk to Crowley about this yet. But perhaps Anathema was right about finding someone else. 

*****  
The nameplate on the door read Dr. Diana Thisbault: Counselor. Nothing about her office suggested that she was anything other than a licensed therapist. Her office was painted a cool light blue and plush, comfortable chairs were arranged under soft, warm lights. It was gentle and cozy. According to Anathema, however, Dr. Thisbault focused primarily in the affairs of “monsters, fey, shapeshifters, and other supernatural entities. Vampires welcome.” 

“She comes highly recommended,” Anathema shrugged. “Vampires aside, she knows her stuff. She’s got lots of awards and accreditations. And she references Brene Brown a lot - I love Brene Brown.”

Aziraphale had nervously agreed to make an appointment. He’d spent most of the morning fidgeting and pacing around the bookshop, certain he was about to make a terrible mistake. Whatever kind of specialist Dr. Thisbault claimed to be, there was absolutely no way she could handle what he was going to tell her. 

Dr. Thisbault was barely over five feet tall and built like a hobbit, with a mass of curly dark hair haloed around her head, skin the color of acorns, and eyes as green as spring ferns. Clothed in a chunky sweater and a tweed skirt, she didn’t particularly look like someone who talked to monsters on the daily. Then again, Aziraphale didn’t exactly look like an immortal celestial being capable of great power and destruction, but here they were.

“Welcome, Aziraphale,” Dr. Thisbault said. “Can you tell me a little about yourself? What brings you here?”

“Ah, where to begin? Well…. At the beginning…” He found himself weaving the very story he’d wanted to many times to tell but never had been able to. Expecting Dr. Thisbault to stop him or tell him he was being ridiculous, his voice faltered a few times, but she did not interrupt. He carried on until he’d arrived at his mindset when he’d walked into the therapy session that morning.

“So I suppose I’m taking quite a risk coming in here, hoping that you actually deal with supernatural issues. Otherwise, this is going to get terribly awkward. But I think Anathema has some good insight that I might be dealing with some unresolved issues of guilt and abandonment and a continual presumption that I will only ever receive unrequited love because that’s what I deserve and… yes, I rather thought it best to work through that with someone who might have some… pointers.” 

“Well,” Dr. Thisbault said and paused. She studied him with a look that was impossible for Aziraphale to discern. Usually, humans were fairly easy to understand with body language but Thisbault was guarded and shrouded with mystery. “I would say you’ve come to the right place. I’ve had many in your position - not celestial beings, per se, but certainly, those who have been led to believe by the systems they have lived in - be they parenting units, work, cultures - that they are inferior, lesser, inadequate. They grow up seeing the world in black and white and when they begin to see in full technicolor… well, as you’ve expressed, it can be difficult. I’m happy you’ve come here and I look forward to unpacking all of this with you. There is one thing I’d like to challenge you to do before your session next week.”

“What is it?”

A hint of a smile formed at the corner of Dr. Thisbault’s lips. “I’d like you to spend some time with this Crowley. Whatever you like. It can be simple. It can be more extravagant. Go see a movie. Go on a holiday weekend. Put aside time to spend with him that has nothing to do with your work or trying to save the world or whatever reasons generally frame why you spend time together. Simply spend time with him to have that time with him. Think you can do that?”

Aziraphale considered. The very thought of this sent nervous flutters through his throat and stomach. But it also gave him a euphoric rush. “Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I rather think I can.”

*****  
It was painfully quiet in Aziraphale’s bookshop. So quiet it seemed he could hear the floors creaking and the shelves groaning as the building settled into the earth. Perhaps it was his imagination - he should instead be hearing the street traffic or at the very least noise from the shop next door. But instead the air was heavy with an absence of sound. Dust motes floated in the golden sunlight and Aziraphale found himself jostling his leg with nervous jitters. Crowley had agreed to stop by that afternoon to plan an outing for that weekend and the angel found himself replaying some of the failed attempts at companionship the two had made. There had been many - most notably, the opening of the bookstore where Crowley had appeared to laud Aziraphale with gifts and Aziraphale had cold-shouldered him due to a very chatty Gabriel who would not leave. There’d been the infamous holy water request which Aziraphale had rejected on the principle of doing no harm, having utterly misunderstood why Crowley wanted the holy water to begin with. There was the moment in which he’d blurted, “You go too fast for me” which had haunted him for years. 

There were plenty of pleasant, wonderful moments of them together, but Azriaphale’s mind couldn’t focus on those. Gabriel and the other Seraphim had always been keen on focusing on his shortcomings and his mistakes and, after millennia, his mind began to repeat these like a broken record. All the old fears - being punished for being a bad angel, for consorting with a demon, for not focusing on the bigger picture, of disappointing God and all the powers that be, for causing Evil to triumph - rose to the surface. Dr. Thisbault had told him to recognize these feelings, acknowledge them rather than push them away (as “Pushing them down will just make them boil up somewhere else,” she’d said). She’d instructed that he should notice them, write them down if there was something new to them, consider where they came from, and let them go. 

“Don’t dwell, don’t berate yourself. Don’t hate yourself for having these feelings come up again,” Thisbault said after she’d scheduled the appointment for the following week. “These feelings will continue to come up for a long time - I still struggle with these from time to time. Once they come up and you process, let them go. Don’t keep them with you - they don’t serve you. Remember who you are and where you are in your journey. You’re powerful and brave. Focus on that.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and, with the exhale, released the dark, twisting feelings that had wound their way through his neck and chest. He felt a release, ease, as he breathed out. Certainly these feelings would return but for now, he was going to think about Crowley. How much stronger he felt around the demon. How much certain of the good of the world when he was spending time with him, far more than Aziraphale had ever seen working for Gabriel. 

The bell at the front door of the bookshop clanged and Crowley entered. 

“‘Lo, angel,” Crowley drawled. “What’s this about, then?”

“Hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale, already feeling too formal. “I… well, I suppose things are different now that the End of the World has… well, ended. And I was hoping that perhaps our little Arrangement could… change. I mean, continue, but… differently.”

“How do you mean differently?”

“I suppose… well, I thought we should maybe spend some time just… together. More. That is…” Aziraphale gulped. “Did you know the United States is quite fascinated by the season of autumn? Every state has its own festival - carnivals and corn mazes and all sorts of things. I wondered if perhaps you might want to explore one of these… with me?”

It was probably rather more extravagant than what Dr. Thisbault would have recommended but they were highly mobile celestial beings and considering they could go anywhere with relative ease, why not take the opportunity to explore humanity a little more? Aziraphale had always been rather fond of autumn - he thought it was Earth’s best season and God had outdone herself with it, personally - and he’d heard stories about the riches and weirdness of America.

“You want to travel - with me?” Crowley looked a bit flushed. Actually he looked like he might burst into flames. Aziraphale hoped he wouldn’t - fire in his bookshop had not gone well in the past. And he wasn’t certain if the spontaneous combustion was a good thing or not. Generally speaking, spontaneous combustion was never good, but if this was how the demon expressed a certain sort of fondness.

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied. “The only problem is, I’m not sure where we should go first.”

*****  
In the end, they decided to throw darts over a map. They’d narrowed it down to the Midwest (the US was too big not to focus on a certain region) and Crowley, who’d taped an old map to one of the walls of the bookshop, pulled out an old witchfinder pin Shadwell had left lying around at some point and gave a hefty toss. It tore into the paper and Aziraphale adjusted his spectacles to read the fine print (He technically didn’t need the glasses, but he rather liked the scholarly look they gave him. He once watched an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in the 90s and found that his fashion had incorporated aspects of the librarian Giles into his own aesthetic). 

“Is that Indiana or Kentucky?” Aziraphale asked. “I think you’ve thrown it right into the Ohio River.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Crowley said. “Maybe they’ve got a river festival or some such thing.”

Aziraphale considered the map. “It does seem to be a little closer to the north. Try… Evansville, I think it is.”

Crowley did a rapid search on his phone. “I’ll be damned.”

“What is it?”

“Would you believe that this town has an annual festival that’s been occurring for nearly a hundred years?”

“Really?”

Crowley gave a grunt of assent. “The West Side Nut Club Fall Festival… wait, is that really its name?”

“That is a bit preposterous.”

“It is though. Look.” He showed the angel his phone. 

“What exactly is a Nut Club?”

“Dunno. Must be like a civic club - yeah, see, here’s their site. Civic club. ‘From small acorns, large oaks grow.’ Leave it to some Americans to name a club after a tree.”

“So is this where we’re going then? It looks rather lovely.”

Crowley blushed. “If you like it then… yeah, let’s go.”

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale smiled. “I’ll start packing.”

*****  
Crowley could have never predicted couple of centuries prior that one October day he’d been walking through a southern Indiana city watching is former hereditary enemy turned love of his life pop pieces of bright pink candy floss in his mouth from a paper cone clutched in his hand it. Crowley was not one to celebrate the lighter, cuter things in life (he was a big fan of the dark and spooky, after all), but watching Aziraphale slowly devour the candy floss (or cotton candy, as the kiosk had called it) made him feel all warm inside. So warm he was afraid he might combust. 

“Want to check out the midway?” Aziraphale said through a mouth full of sugar. “I’d like to see those ridiculous spinny rides up close. Maybe play a game or two?”

Crowley agreed and an idea began to form in his head. Couples around him carried large stuffed animals, taking selfies with them.

“Hey, mate,” Crowley asked one man who was snapping a picture of his boyfriend holding a large stuffed dog. “Where’d you get that toy from?”

“The bottle toss. Down over by the tilt-a-whirl.” 

Crowley nodded. Midway it was then, for sure. 

“Angel,” Crowley said. “I need to find the bottle toss game. Immediately.”

“Bottle toss? What’s a bottle toss?”

“What it sounds like. You toss things. On bottles. Humans do it for fun.”

“That’s rather charming. And why do you want to play?”

“It’s fun. I’m having fun here. Work with me, angel.”

Aziraphale considered the demon. In the six thousand years they’d known each other, he hadn’t often seen Crowley looking anything remotely like flustered. But that was exactly how he seemed now. Flustered, blushing, and eager. Maybe he had seen this before - Aziraphale had just thought it was a restless annoyance. Had he been showing these feelings for years and Aziraphale had simply never noticed it? Perhaps he’d been too wrapped up in the battle between Heaven and Hell to note what was right in front of his eyes. 

“Then let’s have oodles of fun,” Aziraphale smiled. 

Crowley choked and focused on finding the carnival game. He wasn’t sure, but he thought Aziraphale might actually be flirting with him. Six thousand years and that idiot was finally starting to get the picture. Finally. It had taken almost the end of the world but here they were, an angel flirting with a demon. 

The bottle toss game was impossible. It took very good eye-hand coordination, a lot of patience, and a fair bit of luck. Most walked away empty-handed after spending the crumpled bills in their pockets. Every once in awhile, someone would get lucky and actually get the too-small ring around the awkwardly shaped bottleneck. But Crowley had an advantage the humans didn’t - demonic miracles. He won three times in a row, choosing a large stuffed bear as the grand prize. 

“Here, angel,” he said, handing the stuffed toy to Aziraphale. “He’s soft and dapper. Like you.” 

The angel looked a bit stunned and took the bear. “Than-thank you,” Aziraphale stammered. “That’s very kind of you. I… oh, look, he’s got little reading glasses. How nifty!” Crowley suspected that the angel hadn’t actually been given many gifts in the six thousand years of his existence and the demon had to restrain every urge to ransack the fairgrounds and give him every material object in the vicinity. 

“Look.” Aziraphale pointed at a large, lit wheel that spun in the sky. “What is that?”

“A Ferris wheel, I think. Actually… I might be indirectly responsible for the design.”

“What does it do?”

“Well…” Crowley tried to remember the particular ride designer he’d gotten drunk with and to whom he’d shared this idea over cheap bourbon. “You get in the gondolas - the little hanging basket things. And then you go around in a circle. But you stop a lot so you people in the other gondolas can get on and off. Eventually, you get a nice view. But it’s very slow and very tiresome.”

“Actually… it sounds kind of lovely. Want a go?” Aziraphale gave him an imploring look. 

Crowley sighed. “I’m all yours, angel.”

To his surprise, Aziraphale took his hand and pulled him towards the ride. The angel did not let go, even as they got on into the gondola or as the ride slowly gave them an aerial view of the Indiana town. Aziraphale himself was afraid to let go, thinking he might not get the chance to hold Crowley’s hand like this again. 

*****  
“How was the trip?” Dr. Thisbault was sipping a cup of tea, studying Aziraphale with a soft gaze. 

“It was lovely,” Aziraphale replied. “I’m… I’m sad it ended, I think. I wish it hadn’t.”

“What happened?” the doctor asked.

Aziraphale gave her a summary, trying to avoid how he felt afraid of letting go of Crowley at the end of the ride. But despite his urge to suppress them, the words spilled out entirely unbidden. 

“Why do you think you were afraid to let go of his hand?” Thibault asked. 

“I’m afraid I won’t get another chance.”

“And why is that?”

“We’ve had to keep our distance for so long, I can never guarantee I’ll see him again.”

“But he does turn up, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. But…”

“But what?”

“I spent years believing that I couldn’t trust him. That he wanted to ruin me. And…and that’s not easy to move on from.”

Thisbault’s eyes shone with something deep and sad. “No,” she said. “No, it isn’t.”

“I remember…I remember having tea with Oscar Wilde. It was shortly after his fairy tales had been published. 1888, 1889…something like that. I hadn’t seen Crowley for quite some time, you see, and I found Wilde’s story ‘The Nightingale and the Rose’ terribly tragic. Are you familiar with the story?”

“I believe so,” Thisbault said. “A young student falls in love with a beautiful girl and must win her with a red rose. There is no rose of that color to be found, but a nightingale who loves the student makes a red rose for him by sacrificing herself for him, impaling herself on a thorn and…bleeding on it to make it red. The student gives the rose to the girl but she rejects him. The student becomes jaded and turns his back on love, vowing to focus on his studies and academic instead.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, that’s it exactly. Wilde wrote the story in response to a Hans Christian Anderson story. I was never quite sure what it was about. Wilde said it was about art - art for art’s sake, as he was fond of saying. He didn’t believe that art had to have a moral purpose, that it could fundamentally change anything. And one certainly bled for one’s art like the nightingale. It wasn’t worth that kind of sacrifice. 

“But there’s another layer there, too. About unrequited love - not so much of the student. It seems he’s more infatuated rather than in love. The nightingale, however, seems to truly love the student, so much so that she’s willing to die for him. And for what? For him to give the rose to someone who spurns him then immediately turns his back on that sacrifice? I was already afraid, I think - afraid of what mistakes might mean for my work with Gabriel and the other angels. What caring for a demon might mean. Hearing this story about how much love could hurt, how no matter how much I might love Crowley he might drop me as easily as that rose, put words to the terror I had about showing him how I really felt. 

“And even though Crowley’s done nothing of the sort, that kind of fear still lives in me. I rather think Wilde was wrong. He didn’t think art could be important or affect people. His stories certainly affected me. This is a rather dark example, I suppose but… his words always linger in my mind. Wilde was only years away from his life being torn apart due to the outing of his relationship with Lord Douglas. We didn’t speak of this fairytale after that but…I always wondered how he felt about it at the end of his life. If perhaps he had a different view on the importance of the nightingale. Wilde and I had a similar fear, I think. He feared the repercussions of society for his love. I feared the repercussions of Heaven. Not so terribly different at the end of the day, I suppose.”

Dr. Thisbault gave him a gentle smile. “You are incredibly perceptive, Aziraphale. That is a great skill for you to unlearn this fear. It sounds like you are doing very well - and I challenge you to keep working, to spend more time with Crowley, to open up to him as you feel comfortable. Anyone who’s willing to win carnival prizes like that for you certainly cares deeply.”

“Do you think another trip is in order, then?”

Dr. Thisbault grinned. “I don’t see why not.”

*****  
“Really, angel,” Crowley said, eyeing the suitcase skeptically, “Is that all you’re bringing?” 

“Of course not. Those are just books. My travel bag is in the study.”

Crowley peered around the doorframe, eyeing a vintage suitcase. “Is that from the 20th century or the 19th?”

“19th,” Aziraphale said proudly. “I’ve kept it in tip-top condition.”

“So you have,” the demon smiled. 

It was mid-December and the two of them had agreed upon another trip, choosing to go this time to Norway for the St. Lucia Day festivities. Crowley had agreed to meet Aziraphale in the bookshop before leaving in order to make sure they had packed properly. It had been quite some time since either of them had been in Scandinavia and neither of them were certain they were prepared for the winter chill that waited for them there.

“I do wish you’d chosen New Dehli instead,” Crowley said for the seventh time as they drove to the airport. 

“We’ve missed Diwali by over a month,” Aziraphale sighed. “We decided to focus on global holidays and their festival of light happened to fall quite early this year.”

Crowley muttered something and swerved the Bentley around a lorry slowly chugging along. 

“What was that?” Aziraphale asked. 

“I said, it’s lucky I’ve followed you to the end of the world, angel. And that I’d do it again. But I still don’t like the damp.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t suppress the smile that spread across his lips. 

They drove to the airport, avoiding the long security lines with a couple of miracles or two and boarded the flight. After they took their seats, Crowley intertwined his hand with Aziraphale’s. 

“Don’t you think it’s weird to go to a religious festival affiliated with… you know…” Crowley pointed upwards with his free hand. “Seems a bit unhelpful for your recovery process.”

Aziraphale had slowly opened up more to Crowley about the conversations that he had with Thisbault (at least in terms of the trauma Heaven had left on him) and, in turn, Crowley had listened and empathized while bringing to light the difficulties he’d experienced both with Heaven and with Hell. 

“At the end of the day, angel, they aren’t that different,” he’d sighed. “Which is why this place is so much… more.” They’d been in the park, on one of their favorite park benches and he’d taken a moment to enjoy the sound of the breeze in the bare trees and the quacking of ducks in the pond. 

There had been more moments like that - moment of contemplation, reflection, support. While Aziraphale had yet to voice how he felt about Crowley, he felt a new bond growing between them, a bright new hope growing out of the darkness. 

“Actually, it’s more of a secular festival,” Azirphale explained. “It’s part of the Advent celebrations but it’s blended with traditional solstice celebrations. The holiday was originally observed on the longest night of the year. Historically -”

“Save it, angel. Tell me all about it when we see it. I’ll want footnotes and the whole bit. But right now I’m going to take a nap.” He curled up in his seat like a cat, his head resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and was asleep before the plane even took off. Aziraphale spent the flight smiling and holding Crowley’s hand. 

*****  
Crowley and Aziraphale chose a community center just outside of Oslo where the traditional processional occurred during the evening. Girls in long white dresses wearing candle-lit wreaths upon their heads processed down a hall joined by boys in white socks and trousers. A few of the children handed small rolls to Crowley, who studied them curiously.

“What are these, do you suppose?”

“Lussekatt,” Aziraphale said proudly. “They’re saffron buns. Try it - it’s a traditional part of this celebration.”

Crowley nibbled on a piece. “It’s good.” He handed the rest to Aziraphale who ate it with great relish.

“What is it with humans and tradition, do you think, Angel?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said with a mouth full of roll. “There’s many reasons, I think. Many festivities this time of year are about finding light in the darkness, which is important in long winters and human life in general. But there’s also that connection to those who’ve gone before you and remembering the past.”

“What if a tradition sucks? Say… I don’t know, something that excludes others or leads to cruelty.”

“Like Christmas?” Aziraphale inquired.

“Well, I wasn’t going to say it but…”

“It’s really gotten away from itself,” Aziraphale sighed. “It was never my favorite day - a busy day for angels, as you know - but it’s really become a rather sordid feast. It doesn’t help that Gabriel always flouted it as his most important act, despite the fact that it never occurred in December and he terrified poor Mary out of her mind.”

“Ugh, I can’t even imagine,” Crowley grimaced. “Tell me angel - you said you like this holiday because it’s not outright religious, it’s blended in secularism. Give me the low down.”

“What? Really?”

“Yes, angel, I’m telling you to share your copious amounts of research with me. Do it before I change my mind.”

“Well…” Aziraphale was glowing, due both to candlelight and joy. “The feast of St. Lucy stems from a legend about her. It’s said she brought food to Romans hiding in the catacombs, wearing a candle-lit wreath on her head to light her way and leave her hands free to carry food. In the north it used to coincide with Lussinatten, the longest night of the year. It was believed that from that night on until Christmas, magical creatures like gnomes and trolls and spirits roamed the land. St. Lucia Day formed out of these two celebrations and… well, there’s something so lovely about candlelight and something sort of mysterious about it all that I’ve always enjoyed it.” 

Crowley’s gaze lingered and did not leave his face even after he had finished speaking. 

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked. 

“For six thousand years I’ve listened to you talk about humans with the most astonishing fondness and for all of those thousands of years, you’ve done absolutely idiotic things for them. It is one of your most charming qualities.”

“I…” Aziraphale swallowed whatever he was going to say to dodge the compliment. “Thank you. I’ve always admired your nonchalance and disregard for rules.”

“I thought you hated those things.”

“I cared about them, passionately. Over time it grew on me.”

“Hmm.” Crowley was silent for a moment, watching the candle flames flicker around them. “Angel… can I kiss you?”

“Good Lord, it took you long enough to ask.” Before Crowley could respond, Aziraphale had pressed his lips against the demons. No one seemed to notice them as time stopped, the air hung still, and all movement ceased but for the flickering candles and the ethereal couple’s mouths and hands. Aziraphale did not lose himself in the kiss - rather, he felt found. 

Slowly he pulled away and time started again. Crowley looked shocked and astonished and a bit like he might have stopped breathing. 

“It took me long enough?” he exhaled in a hiss. “Angel, I’ve wanted to do that every day for six thousand years.”

“I finally realized that, at some point,” Aziraphale said, blushing. “But I needed you to ask. I needed you to… tempt me.”

Crowley made a sound that registered something like a muffled scream. “What?”

“Tempt is probably the wrong word. I needed you to initiate, to show me you wanted me. Otherwise, I would just keep arguing with myself that this was never going to happen and it wasn’t worth the risk and that I would just end up alone, entirely alone. Heaven would spurn me and you would leave me and… I was afraid. I’m unlearning this fear and one day I can lead and you can follow for a change but for now… I need you to keep leading me and teach me the steps of this dance.”

Crowley’s mouth hung open in stunned silence. He did not move, he did not blink. Aziraphale was suddenly very concerned.

“Crowley… Crowley, my dear boy, are you alright?”

“Are you telling me… all of this time I could have just asked to kiss you… and saved us both all of this torment?”

“I mean, eventually, yes. If it had been before the Apocalypse, it probably wouldn’t have gone as well, as I wasn’t quite clued into what I actually wanted but now -”

Crowley silenced him with another kiss. “Oh for God - for Satan - for someone’s sake,” he murmured. “We’re both such idiots.”

Aziraphale responded with another kiss and the two of them slipped away from the world for a little while, just the two of them in one another’s arms.

*****  
“I would say trip number two was a great success,” Aziraphale beamed at his next appointment with Dr. Thisbault.

“Do tell,” Dr. Thisbault smiled.

Aziraphale gave his therapist a brief summary, trying not to dwell too heavily on all the kissing (even though it was his favorite part. Well, that and the bit about nerding out over St. Lucia Day to Crowley).

For a moment, Dr. Thisbault didn’t say anything and for a terrifying second, Aziraphale thought he might have done something wrong and upset her sensibilities somehow crossed some important kind of doctor/patient line. Then, her face broke into an enormous smile.

“FINALLY,” Thisbault cried. “It took you long enough.”

The air around her changed and… was she glowing? Something about her was different. 

“Doctor… are you alright?”

“Am I alright? Never better, Aziraphale. Never better.” 

Her voice sounded… different. More powerful, somehow. And she looked taller - was she taller? 

“Dr. Thisbault? What?”

“Oh, Aziraphale, it has been so many years since I have seen you face to face.”

Aziraphale felt a rush of fear and awe shudder through him. He recognized that voice. It was one he hadn’t heard for nearly six thousand years.

“G...God?” he stammered.

“I am.”

“What… what have you done with Dr. Thisbault?”

“Oh, Aziraphale, I am Dr. Thisbault. I took this persona to straighten some things out with a few rogue creations - I have to say I never expected such flagrant disregard to ethics from vampires, let me tell you - and then you came my way. Which was fortuitous. I did everything in my power to get you and Crowley to go out with each other and I honestly can’t believe it took this long. You two are rather thick, you know?”

“Yes. No! What are you saying?” Aziraphale cried.

“I’m saying I play an ineffable game that sometimes involves trying to get an angel and a demon to fall in love. Don’t act like I had no idea what was going on after you gave up that flaming sword. I saw you two talking on the wall. I always liked Crowley - he just hung out with the worst people…. Hmm. Well, anyway, it’s been a lot of effort on my part to keep from divine intervention but I’m glad to have finally been here to help guide you two together.”

Aziraphale sat, stunned, letting this sink in. “All this time… you supported Crowley and I being together?”

“Absolutely. Sadly I couldn’t exactly express that without interfering with the Divine Interference Accords I signed back in… oh, some point in the BCEs… were you a part of those? I suppose not. Gabriel really preferred to keep those matters to the upper echelons - which is all for the worst, really. I really should have a word with him about that. And perhaps about those accords - has he really let Earth fall into this state? It’s a mess.”

“Oh, you should have seen the 14th century. It was dreadful.”

“Really? Well, it seems I’ve a lot of work to do and a lot of intention-clearing to get started on. But, I want to say, Aziraphale…” God paused. “I’ve enjoyed these talks, more than you can know. It’s been marvelous to see you grow. It really has.”

“But… but I’ve outright spoken about going against Heaven!” Aziraphale cried. His thoughts were going a hundred miles an hour and it began to register who he’d shared his innermost self with. 

“Yes, Aziraphale. You spoke about going against Heaven. Not against me. Those are entirely different things. Go against Heaven as often as you want - I know I do. After all, can you really go against me? I’m ineffable. How do you know what side I’m on? Other than your and Crowley’s eternal love, of course.”

“I… I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” she cackled. “All this said, Aziraphale, I want to make sure that I give you want you need. I think you’re in a good place to stop therapy for now. You’ve resolved a lot and worked through so much. Let’s meet again in a month, see where things are, and if you feel you need to continue one, I’ll find you another therapist. I know Budda’s been itching to get back into his work again.”

“Oh, of course. Thank you. I… I don’t know what to say.”

God smiled. “You don’t have to say anything at all. I know.” 

*****  
Aziraphale had been filled with a funny sensation after discovering that Thisbault was God. Not disappointment or dismay but a little bit of regret that he hadn’t known sooner. There was so much he wanted to say, but he supposed that, at the end of the day, it wasn’t anything God didn’t already know. She certainly did play an ineffable game and it left his head spinning. 

New Year’s was approaching and Crowley had suggested the two of them take another trip. “Somewhere closer to home,” the demon had suggested. “I hear Wales is nice this time of year.”

“I thought you didn’t like the damp?”

“This one time, I’ll make an exception,” Crowley yawned. “Besides, after a few thousand years, I think it’s grown on me. Like moss on a stone.” 

Aziraphale had researched holiday celebrations in Wales and came across a strange celebration called Mari Lwyd. He showed the photos to Crowley.

“What the devil is this?” he’d cried. “Is that… is that a horse skull?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied. “People carry it around and challenge people to a battle of wits through poetry.”

“Sounds spooky, let’s go.”

New Year’s Day found them in the village of Aberystwyth, staying at a small bed and breakfast near the coast. Over coffee and pastries, Aziraphale shared what he’d been able to find about Mari Lwyd. 

“No one’s quite sure where exactly the name came from,” he said, nibbling at a muffin. “Some believe it’s to do with Mary, Mother of Christ. Others think it’s linked to a pre-Christian religious rite. Others accept the fact they have no idea where it came from and go with it.”

“Right,” Crowley said. “What exactly is it, then?”

“A parade. Sort of.” Aziraphale gave him a small, almost wicked smile. “It’s perhaps best if you see it for yourself.”

*****  
A few hours later, Crowley and Aziraphale were following a procession down the streets of Aberystwyth, led by a young couple carrying a horse’s skull decorated with fabric and ribbon. They approached a house where one of the party knocked on the door. The resident answered and, in song, the horse - or the people accompanying the horse skull - asked to be let in. The resident refused (also in song). This continued back and forth, each trying to outwit the other in rhyme, until the homeowner admitted defeat and the parade entered the house for a break with wassail and biscuits. 

“Right,” Crowley said, stirring his wassail. “How in the world do you find these things?”

“What?” Aziraphale pouted. “I thought you liked my research skills.”

“I do. I am, it’s just… it’s a lot. This is weird. Very weird. I like it, big weird fan me. I’m just… overcome.”

“It is very strange,” Aziraphale agreed. “Lovely though. So are these biscuits.” He nibbled at one, his eyes closed, relishing it.

A smile spread across Crowley’s face. “It’s quite ni - well, I like seeing you being passionate about things.”

Aziraphale opened his eyes and looked at him. “Were you going to say nice?”

“Nah. I thought better of it. It’s better than nice. It’s perfect.”

He leaned over and gave Aziraphale a quick peck on the cheek. 

“Good Lord, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, taking Crowley’s hand. “I kissed you in Norway; you needn't be so shy about it.” 

Crowley murmured something Aziraphale couldn’t make out.

“What was that?”

“I said you make me shy,” Crowley muttered, staring down at the table. Around them, people were finishing their drinks and preparing to move on to the next house. 

“I make you shy?” Aziraphale parroted incredulously. 

“Don’t say it like that, it’s not…” Crowley stammered. “It’s just… you’re radiant.”

“So are you.”

Crowley was speechless for a moment. Aziraphale could see something working away in his mind - was he going to dodge and let the belief that he was a fallen and use that against him? Or was he going to choose something else?

Something else it was. Crowley straightened up, straightening his coat. “Bloody right, I’m radiant like a full moon. C’mon Angel - let’s go badger another Welsh person with rhyme.”

Crowley took his hand and led him out of the house, back into the cool winter air among the other revelers singing and practicing poem lines. Despite the bare trees and the frosty stones beneath his feet, Aziraphale could feel the world growing around him. Within him. Between him, and Crowley. He cozied up to Crowley and the two traipsed onwards, into the warm afternoon light.


End file.
